


On That Tree

by dontletyourheartdistractyou



Category: The Creatures (Youtube RPF)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Other, Self-Hatred, it also talks about seamus leaving so be careful of that, mentions of illness, this is a little piece of angst set quite a while from now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:05:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontletyourheartdistractyou/pseuds/dontletyourheartdistractyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of you, a selfish part, is yelling inside your brain to just fucking go over there and say hi, to just spill your heart out, but you can't because you're a coward as always.</p><p>(( or, in which; Seamus hasn't talked to Jordan in months and keeps seeing them in one tree in the local park. ))</p>
            </blockquote>





	On That Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Have this terrible fanfic because I needed to vent my KootraPKC/Seamus feels after recent events. I was inspired to write a genderfluid character because of this cool genderfluid youtuber who I've been watching lately!

One day, in your usual stroll through the park by your house, you see her.

Mishka is biting at your heels, and you wonder through barely sepressed anger as you bite your lip, why the hell did you let Aleks convince you to walk her?

Oh right, it's because you feel guilty.

(( About everything. About leaving. About the sickness. About the depression. About the things that are hard to hold in and the things you can no longer hide. )) 

You notice her legs first.

They're dangling from a high up tree, one you could never climb yourself, due to the lacking strength in your limbs and the illness that's been haunting you for months.

They're also clad in scruffy converse and equally scruffy jeans, covered in dirt and what looks like specks of paint (( coloured an insanely bright shade of yellow that seems slightly familiar for reasons you can't place )) but that's not watch catches your attention.

No, what does is the girl's upper half, specifically the hat balanced dangerously on the top of her head.

She's laughing away at something on her phone (( her smile is like the sun, a comparison that shocks you and makes you want to punch yourself, because you aren't one to throw away compliments so easily, especially not to strangers )), long brown hair tangled in her fingers, popping out from under a red cardinals cap, one that looks old with age and wear.

You shake it off immediatly as a conicidence, and carry on your way, Mishka's lead clenched tightly in your hand, but you can't shake the feeling that you know this girl, who wears a hat like your friend and admittedly laughs like him too.

(( Spoiler alert; you do. ))

-

A week later, you see him.

He's in the same spot, only this time it's raining heavily and he's stuck under an umbrella wedged in a hole in the tree.

He doesn't seem mad at the rain. His expression's somewhat nostalgic, as if he's remebering an old friend, someone he lost (( it hits you that he could be thinking of you, the boy who loved the droplets of water so much that the other would text him excidetly whenever it started to storm, just to make sure - as if he couldn't see it from his window )).

He's humming, pretty eyes a more vibrant shade of blue than normal, as if enhanced by the grey clouds passing over, and it smacks you right in the face that you haven't seen him in weeks.

Scratch that, you haven't talked to him in weeks, you haven't seen him face to face in months.

It saddens you more than it should, because you're the reason the contact got cut off so abruptly, because at the time the guilt, the overwhelming guilt of not being there, was too much (( it was an everspinning cycle: don't talk to him because you feel like it's your fault, he gets more down, it's even more your fault, so you stay away even more. ))

A part of you, a selfish part, is yelling inside your brain to just fucking go over there and say hi, to just spill your heart out, but you can't because you're a coward as always.

(( You're scared to, frightened to death of hurting him even more, and hurting yourself, even as you shout out and try to grab onto the threads of your relationship that's falling apart. 'Run to him,' it says. 'Tell him you're sorry.'

'Sorry for what?'' you ask yourself, as if it isn't obvious.

'Sorry for leaving the group without so much as a word, with little to no notice. Sorry for not talking back to you for months on end, even as you left voicemails that went on for hours and texting paragraphs after paragraphs. Sorry for ever getting your hopes up, for pretending that I'm a nice person, when I'm not. Sorry for everything.'

You don't say sorry now, but you will scream it into your pillow later, word after word, sentence after sentence, so much so that the neighbours will bang on the wall and your cat will cry in horror. ))

There's a little part of you there that isn't like the one that yells for forgiveness or buries itself in self-loathing. It, instead, calls for you to pity yourself. For you not to walk on. For you to wait, to see if he notices. To see if he wants to talk, to see what he wants, to see what he desires and what he deserves. It's the rational part.

But when have you even been that?

You give into your weakness, pull the hood over your head, and walk along the rocky path, damp hair slapping against your chin and tears forming in your eyes.

(( It's when you reach the pond at the other end of the park that you realise that her and him were wearing the same jeans, the one's covered in the paint from your British friend's office, and the first thing you feel is confusion.

A split second later, it's acceptance.

You don't understand fully, not yet, not now. But, maybe, one day, you might. ))

-

A month passes, and you see them.

Their hair isn't as short as it usually is, or as long as it was, but it's at a midway point, the usual hat gone, in it's place sunglasses as the sun beats down instead of usual clouds or that terrible storm.

Their shirt is decorated in a heart, coloured in pink, white, purple, black and blue, and underneath, it reads: genderfluid and proud (( a term you recognise from the hours you spent mindlessly on the internet, scrolling and scrolling, looking for a term that would fit the person he saw on the tree, and sources which would help him not screw up - if they ever did get back on friendly terms )).

They look down on you, a raised eyebrow and a drink in their hands and you try not to wince in pure pain, at the worry that their about to reject you, about to throw you away, ignore you like you did them.

But they don't.

They pull you up, a helping hand to climb a tree your bad health wouldn't allow you to scale, and, as they balance you, you notice their shaking, but their expression is controlled, calm (( unlike you, as you are sure, at this point, you look like a mess, with dirty hair and a blocked nose and sleepy eyes and pale skin and a downhearted frown )).

The two of you sit in silence, neither breaking it, but they slip their hand into yours and grip tight.

A message chimes in your pocket, and you notice them holding their own phone, grip tight around the device, as you dig yours out of your pocket.

'Are you okay with this?'

It states it, just text, but you can hear their voice already, and you can tell if they were talking their voice would be trembling with emotion that they can't keep in (( it breaks your heart, that they would be so beaten down because of what you assume is their secret, because what does it matter if that's how they feel? if that's what they are, it's what they are. and you understand that, and you want them to know that )).

It may seem cliche, but you go for an answer that best describes you.

'Why wouldn't I be?'

They freeze, for a moment, before relaxing, previously tense posture uncurling, and a smile settles on their lips, a slight one that's still blinding (( what is it you said before? it's like 'the sun'? well that still stands, only this time, you think it would be better to say that their even brighter than that, because it's the truth in your eyes. They sparkle next to you, and you feel like a shadow, and it's almost impossible not to, in their pressence )).

"I'm so sorry, Jordan."

The words fumble from your barely used lips, your voice croaky, but it's the best you can do. You still are ill, after all.

"It's okay, Seamus. Trust me."

(( And, somehow, you believe them. ))


End file.
